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You could never put your finger on it – was it the echoing quiet? The danger of being caught? Could it even be the smell of leather and sweat? No matter the reason, the NMO Arena locker room was one of the best places to make out.
Beowulf has you pinned to one of the exercise mats, fingers curling around your wrists just hard enough. His canine sinks into your lip and you moan as a bead of blood bubbles up. It was going to be annoying later, sure, but right now it was pretty damn sexy. You angle your hips up against his. Beowulf practically growls, deep in his chest, and releases your wrists so he can pull you into a sitting position. His hand snakes between your thighs and his fingertips press in all the right places.
“Whaddya say we get on to the main event?” he says between breathless kisses. You take your time answering, lingering in the latest kiss as his tongue slips between your lips.
“Never done that in public before,” you murmur when you pull apart. “I don’t know if I want somebody else seeing me naked right now.”
“Nobody’s here! It’s what, midnight?” He pauses. “Huh. Maybe we should stop hangin’ around here so late.”
You shrug. “If there’s somebody else who’s going to try to kill us, I think they would have done it like an hour ago.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He runs a teasing finger up your stomach, bringing your shirt with it. “But if you don’t wanna, we don’t have to.”
It’s not the bullshit that would come with those words from some other guy – he really means it. You shrug your shoulders uncomfortably.
“I… fuck. There somewhere more private?”
“Uh, not really. The bathrooms, I guess.”
You are not having sex in Beowulf’s employee bathroom. Or any employee bathroom, for that matter. You settle your mouth into a hard line and give it one more thinking over. It does sound appealing.
“You sure nobody’s here?”
“Positive.” His eyes light up and the last of your stubbornness leave you. You give him a half-smile and nod. “Right on! Mind if I help you outta those clothes?”
You lay back and flutter your eyelashes. “Be my guest. But – if you rip a single stitch off this shirt your ass is grass.”
His smile falters. “Aw, c’mon baby, I’ll getcha a new one…”
“I don’t want a new one, I want this one. I just bought it and it’s my favorite shirt.” He gives you puppy dog eyes. “Favorite.”
“Okay, okay. No shirt-shreddin’ – got it.” His big, calloused fingers fumble for the bottom button with exaggerated care. You roll your eyes. Slowly, comically so, he undoes the rest. Your annoyance fades as he slides his hands under your tank top, peeling it away and letting his fingertips brush over you. Goosebumps rise on your arms and you lean forward to get closer to him. He kisses your bare stomach almost languidly.
You let out a sigh of contentment as the cool air hits your skin. Usually Beowulf’s a pretty brash lover – just as loud and impulsive as the rest of him – but to feel him be so delicate with you is stirring up your insides all the same. In fact, it’s a nice change of pace.
He’s getting impatient himself by the time he makes it to your underwear, giving it more of a yank than anything. You frown slightly as your waistband frays at the seam. Beowulf kisses the frown right off of you.
He always insists on undressing you first. Something about the ritual of tearing off your clothes really does it for him. And you – you just love how he touches you. Beowulf gathers you into a tight hug and you nuzzle up against the soft wool of his sweater vest. It’s warm and a little ticklish and it smells so much of him that your heart stutters. His stubble brushes your cheek as he kisses you again. Something about tonight is making you a serious sense freak.
In fact, your senses are so attuned that you’re the first one to pick up on the sound. Beowulf’s just pulled off the vest and is messing with his belt, but you put a hand on his to stop him.
“Do you hear that?” you hiss. He gives you a puzzled look but it comes again – movement from the arena. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Stay here.” Beowulf throws you his vest and you slip it on. You can’t help but bite back a laugh at him going out to confront whoever it is with no shirt on, like a corny action movie, but most of you is still alight with panic at the thought of some stranger walking in on you.
Or worse, someone you know. Someone that you’ll have to make awkward eye contact with as they realize that you’ve been in the front row of Beowulf’s last dozen matches. Someone who’s eaten at the concession stand. This is truly a disaster.
You ponder trying to crawl into one of the lockers but the truth of the matter is that you just won’t fit. You instead gather up your clothes and hunker down in the far corner, crouching behind a low bench. The shadows are deep there – if someone came in they’d have to look real hard to notice you.
You wait a minute, then two. You don’t hear anything else out there, not even Beowulf’s footsteps. He might have gone further towards the front – to check the lobby, or the street door. Given the last time somebody came in this late, you don’t blame him for being thorough.
You slip your underwear back on and are just about to pull on your pants when the door clangs against the far row of lockers. The sound is all the way on the other side of the room but it still makes your blood go cold.
If it was Beowulf, he’d announce himself, call for you, but there’s only silence again. That is, until the footsteps start up. The door shuts loudly and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You can’t see the far wall from where you are, and vice versa, but your options are incredibly limited. There’s nowhere to run without whoever it is seeing you – and they are going to have a lot of questions about why a half-naked civilian is hanging out in the locker room reserved for talent.
You realize suddenly that you’re not just scared of being embarrassed, you’re actually scared. Those footsteps are so deliberate, so weighty, that the thought of who they might belong to frightens you. That someone is running their nails over the locker doors as they walk towards the center of the room and it’s terrifying in a way you can’t articulate.
“I know you’re in here, little valet,” comes a voice, low and rough. “Come out, come out…” No mistaking it – it’s Beowulf. You’re so angry that you throw your stuff on the ground and stomp out from your hiding spot.
“You dick-” you start, but your voice dies in your throat.
The man in front of you looks a hell of a lot like Beowulf. But there’s no way he’d have time to coat himself in dark gray paint, bleach his hair white, and turn his eyes into – that. The sclera are deep black and the irises look like they’re actually glowing. There’s no pupil – just a flat yellow that’s eerie even in the fluorescents. The last time you saw such strange eyes, they were on the grainy TV picture of the Skullgirl.
“That’s me,” he says. He takes a step towards you and you take one back. You don’t know what the hell is going on here – but you decide to play it like you would any normal person.
“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, “I know I’m not supposed to be back here. I was just leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere that I ain’t, sweet thing.”
You stand up straighter and put on the voice you use for rowdy customers. “Sir, I’m going home. You can tell on me to whoever you want, but I’m leaving.”
“Ooh, tough.” He cracks a grin that’s so familiar and yet so unnerving. “How ‘bout I make you a deal? You don’t give me any problems, and I don’t carry you outta here in a body bag.”
Your stomach twists so hard tears spring up in your eyes. “Excuse me?” you ask, your voice shaking. He takes another step towards you. Your glance desperately around the room, looking for something to defend yourself with, but there’s nothing in reach. “I don’t know who you are, but you can’t just threaten a total stranger like that-”
“You talk too much,” he says in a growl. “And you’re no stranger. I know you – outside and in.” He sticks his tongue out and waggles it suggestively. The way he runs it over his lips is downright lecherous.
“Fuck you.” It’s reflexive – anger bubbles up in you so quick and hot that you don’t care who he is. “Get the fuck out of my way, creep.”
He throws his head back and laughs – and then he’s on you. You don’t even have time to scream before he tosses you over his shoulder, the muscles there hitting you in the gut and knocking the wind out of you. Just like with Beowulf, you’re nothing to him. You might as well be a feather boa with how easily he strolls out of the locker room.
Your paralysis doesn’t last for long. You start kicking and punching with everything you have, and when it doesn’t work, you twist in his grip and bite down as hard as you on into his ear. That gets a reaction – he slings you around into his arms like a bride. Two steel-strong arms clamp your arms to your sides and your legs together.
You try to headbutt him, but you’re too pinned to reach. He gives you a sharp smile and a wink. “Spitfire, ain’t ya? I can see why he keeps you around.”
Before you can process that, you’re in the wide open of the arena. Your heart leaps as you spot Beowulf on the opposite side, coming back through the lobby doors.
“There he is! The champ himself.” Your captor laughs again, and it echoes in the vast space. He dashes up the stairs and ducks through the ropes, still holding you tight to him. “’Bout time you decided to show up. You gotta learn how to keep track of your things, Beowulf.”
To your utter shock, Beowulf clambers into the ring and points an accusing finger. “Wulfsbane,” he says. “My old arch nemesis. My dark side – my shadow self. How dare you come back in my ring and lay hands on my tag-team partner!”
“Why are you being so normal about this?” you practically holler at him. “You know this guy?”
“Yeah, babe, of course. He’s my evil twin.” Beowulf’s brow furrows. “Didn’t you watch my early stuff?”
“I barely knew what wrestling was until I met you.” You jerk your head back to stare at this “Wulfsbane,” who is patiently waiting for you two to finish. You’re filled with a heady mix of fury and relief – this is some kind of dumbass game that wrestlers play. The kind that goes on after hours and scares the life out of innocent romantic interests. “Uh… help? I guess?”
“Quit playin’ dirty!” Beowulf shouts, sinking into a fighting stance. “Your fight’s with me, Wulfsbane. Square up!”
“Had to get you to face me, didn’t I? Can’t have you chickenin’ out.”
Wulfsbane carries you back down the metal stairs and you spot something in the corner that you missed on the way in. You stare at it, speechless – an honest to goodness cage. Wulfsbane tucks you into it as easy as you’d lock up a misbehaving puppy. You can scramble up into a sitting position, but it’s not big enough for you to stand. The bars are too close together for you to reach much more than your fingers between them. He slams the door and hooks a padlock into the latch.
“You win,” Wulfsbane says, straightening up, “you both walk outta here in one piece. If I win…” He turns to give you a luminous, predatory smile. “I’m takin’ this one home with me.”
“Not a chance, scumsucker – I can still thrash you no problem.” Beowulf puts a hand on his shoulder and windmills one massive arm. “Bring it.”
You guess it shouldn’t surprise you, given the everything about him, but Wulfsbane also has a folding chair. He hoists it above him and spins it expertly. “Let’s finish this – once and for all.”
The two of them crash into each other at the center of the ring, and they start going at it. You shift in your spot – there’s a padded square beneath you so you aren’t sitting on bare bars. You don’t have any lingering pain from getting manhandled.
What’s hurt most are your feelings. If Beowulf wanted to do some kind of sexy wrestling roleplay fantasy with you, he could have asked. He didn’t have to spring it on you with whatever lookalike dude he knew from work. Your cheeks flare with embarrassment even as Wulfsbane hits a hard clothesline and sends Beowulf sprawling.
You hope they’re having a good time, because you sure don’t find this very fun.
Beowulf retaliates with a swing of the Hurting that nails Wulfbane square in the chest. He stumbles backwards into the corner closest to you. “I know he put you up to this and you can stop now,” you say, peeved. “Seriously. It isn’t working.”
“Sure, hot stuff – keep tellin’ yourself this is all pretend.” And with that, he launches back into the center to tangle with Beowulf again.
Yuck, you think. He sure walked and talked like Beowulf, but he was definitely a massive douche. And he was taking it way too far – you flinch as he opens up a cut on Beowulf’s forehead with the corner of his chair. Beowulf retaliates with a back elbow and then drops Wulfsbane’s chin onto his knee. He hits the ground hard. His eyes are unfocused and he groans as Beowulf climbs up onto the top rope.
Three Wulf Moonsault, you think, remembering his signature finisher. Good – that means this stupid performance is almost over. Sure enough, Beowulf leaps with a surging series of fist pumps and flips neatly backwards before slamming down onto Wulfsbane’s prone body.
“One!” you shout, doing your best impression of a referee. “Two! Th-” You stop as Wulfsbane surges up and rolls over, taking Beowulf with him. He kicks both of the chairs in turn and sends them skidding away. This must have caught Beowulf off guard because he can’t stop Wulfsbane from wrapping one arm around his throat and the other around his left arm.
You know this one, too – it’s called an anaconda, and it’s not hard to get out of. Still, you grow uncertain as the seconds tick by. Wulfsbane’s arm looks like it’s really tight, and Beowulf… Beowulf’s turning blue. Holy shit, he’s actually turning blue. He’s clawing at Wulfsbane’s arm and his body is twisting left and right, but he can’t seem to slip loose of the hold. Strangled sounds are all he can make as Wulfsbane doubles down, putting a knee in the center of his back to increase the pressure.
Before you know it, you’re screaming. “Stop, stop, you’re hurting him!”
“That’s the plan,” Wulfsbane grunts.
“Are you fucking insane, what are you doing? You’re gonna kill him!”
“Not if he taps out like a good dog.” Wulfsbane’s grin drips malice. “C’mon, buddy. You don’t wanna snuff it like this, do ya? In front of your little playmate?”
Beowulf’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his mouth opening and closing without sound. His grip on Wulfsbane’s arm is visibly loosening.
“Tap out! For the love of – fucking tap out!”
And, thank heaven, he does. His hand weakly slaps the mat and Wulfsbane releases his hold. Beowulf slides to the floor and lays there, near motionless. His breath is shallow and raspy. “Don’t…” he says, “don’t go… I’m not… done yet…”
“You’re done, all right. The champ’s been dethroned.” You yank at the door, but it doesn’t budge. “And you know what that means.” He glances back over his shoulder and meets your eyes. Your stomach drops to your feet. “Your little piece of tail is mine.”
“Don’t… don’t you touch…” Beowulf wheezes. He tries to push himself up but his arms give out on him. “I mean it…”
“This isn’t funny anymore,” you say, desperately, though you know now that this isn’t a game. This person is completely off his rocker. “Beowulf – he needs an ambulance or something-” You flinch back as Wulfsbane crouches in front of you. He undoes the padlock and the latch. “Listen, shithead, you went way off the rails and you hurt him-”
He cuts you off by shoving three fingers into your mouth. The taste of salt and mat powder coats your tongue and you nearly gag. “Do me a favor, babe, and shut up.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vial of dark liquid. You thrash and struggle and try to bite, but it’s no use. He jerks your mouth open wider and upends the vial into the back of your throat. The liquid is strangely warm and syrupy sweet.
“What is… what did…” You feel as breathy and lightheaded as Beowulf must be right now. Your head buzzes with a sort of delirium. Your eyelids flutter closed, and the last thing you feel is strong hands bearing you up and away. Beowulf’s shouting from somewhere far away, calling your name, but soon everything goes quiet.
~
You come to in a haze – but when it’s gone, the expected pounding headache doesn’t follow. Instead, you feel strangely rested and almost a bit pleasant before you remember what just happened.
You sit up like a catapult and try to clamber out of wherever you are, but a hand presses to your chest and pushes you back down. It doesn’t help that your limbs weigh a hundred pounds each and really don’t want to listen to you. Things are a bit of a blur but you can still see the gray shape with glowing eyes looming a few inches away. Wulfsbane reaches for your face and you recoil – but he only brushes the hair out of your eyes. The room comes into sharp focus.
You look down at yourself to see that you’re still wearing Beowulf’s vest and your underwear. You’re in bed, covers in a mess around you, in a perfectly average hotel room. It could be any suite in any mid-range hotel in New Meridian.
The doorway is the only exit. This room doesn’t even have windows. You could try to make a run for it, but you don’t need to be psychic to know how that’ll go. Wulfsbane seems to be waiting for you to speak.
You have no clue where to start, so you decide to go general. “Hey. What the fuck.” There’s no anger behind your words – you haven’t been able to get the rest of your brain kickstarted yet.
“You got questions, better ask ‘em now.” He stretches his arms over his head. “We don’t got forever.”
“How did you get me in here?”
“Put you in a super-sized duffel bag. Easy as pie.”
“Where’s Beowulf?” Your stomach flips at the memory of him lying half-dead in the ring.
“If I had to guess… probably suckin’ down a cup of tea, maybe a couple cough drops. Workin’ the kinks outta his shoulders. Y’know, gettin’ ready for round two.” He sits back. “C’mon, you didn’t think a little chokehold would stop him, did ya?”
“I am so fucking lost,” you snap. “Is this real or not?”
Wulfsbane laughs and raises an eyebrow. “Babe, you should know by now, bein’ with the King of the Ring, that wrestlin’s always real. But I don’t blame ya – I’m no ordinary heel. I was made just for the ‘Wulf.”
“They hired you because you look alike?” The resemblance was genuinely impressive – they really could have been twins if not for the whole… gray thing.
“Nah. I mean I was made for the ‘Wulf.” He sees your confusion and shrugs. “Hey, I don’t know nothin’ about the science. Do you know how you got made?”
You, as an adult human being, know exactly how the miracle of life works. But you let him continue without interruption.
“I just know this guy – Doctor A-V or somethin’ – was testin’ some kinda new invention. NMO’s always lookin’ for a new way to pack seats, and they wanted somethin’ real special. The perfect heel to go up against the all-time champ. They put Beowulf through this fancy machine, and bam. I come out the other end.”
“A clone,” you guess.
“Eh, clones stick around. I only show up when the big guy needs me – when the ring needs me.” He cracks his knuckles. “But you better believe I’m gonna make the most of it. He needs a serious push if he’s gonna keep up this hot streak.” He sounds so different now – downright excited. The creeping feeling of dread he gave you before has all but evaporated. “We did some good work out there – generated a lotta heat. Except you. You are gonna need a lot of edits thanks to that mouth.”
You flip him off and he crows with laughter. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! You can’t keep doin’ that in front of the cameras.”
The word hits you like a truck. “Cameras?”
“Cool it, there ain’t none in here. But sure, I set some up ‘fore I started the match. It’s gonna be a killer promo, let me tell ya – folks are gonna go wild, seein’ yours truly again.”
“You can’t do that – nobody knows we’re –“
“Sorry. Pretty soon everybody’s gonna know. Hope you’re ready for the spotlight, little valet.”
“I’m not his fucking valet. I have a real job, thanks.”
“C’mon.” His gaze is knowing and smug and makes you want to rabbit punch him. “Don’t tell me you never thought about it. Comin’ out there in a hot little number, gettin’ in on the action. Makin’ sure everybody knows he’s yours.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve thought about it. And I think it’s bullshit. The only opinions I care about are his and mine, and I don’t need to get famous for hanging off Beowulf’s arm.” His expression doesn’t change – so you tell the truth. “Okay, it might be fun once.” You hunch your shoulders. “Or twice. Maybe for like a month. But… I guess I do care what other people would think of me. He’s Beowulf. And I’m a line cook.”
You sigh heavily. “I’m not meant for show business, I-”
Wulfsbane leans forward and cups the back of your head in one hand while pressing the other over your mouth. “I’m not your therapist, sugar.” You try to push him off but he tightens his grip. “We got an hour, max, before your boyfriend starts gettin’ impatient. You can do whatever you want – but we could also do somethin’ together, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
You narrow your eyes and put a hand on his wrist. “Hey, hear me out. I know everything he knows, and I want everything he wants. And man, he’s got it bad for you. Lemme just say that I can see why.” A hungry look flashes over his face. “And here’s somethin’ else I know. You want what he can’t give ya.”
He tilts you back, holding you steady. A little thrill of fear and something deeper blooms in your gut. “Oh, you’ve tried it before. Tried to get ‘im to use those muscles for holdin’ you down, takin’ what he wanted. But you just can’t get ‘im to really commit. No, not Mister Goody Two-Paws, Mister Babyface. He couldn’t play the heel if he tried.”
Your heart is pounding and your cheeks fill with heat. Wulfsbane grins and his teeth are so sharp, so much sharper than Beowulf’s. He almost doesn’t look human. He lets go of you, but it’s only to pull off his belt. He seizes your arms and wrenches them above your head. You lash out with your feet but they bounce harmlessly off his abdomen and thighs.
“Get off,” you say, but even you know you don’t mean it. Wulfsbane loops the end of the belt around your wrists, cinching them tight, and ties the other end in a knot around the bedpost. Your writhing hips don’t do anything to stop him from removing your underwear. He grabs your left leg and yanks you down on the bed until your foot is in range of something you didn’t see before – a leather cuff attached to the footboard.
“Can’t have you gettin’ away,” he says with a low, rumbling laugh. He fastens the cuff tightly around your ankle, and soon has both of your legs strapped down. “So good for me, ain’t ya? You barely put up a fight.”
“Fuck you,” you spit, and he climbs on top of you. He leans down close to whisper in your ear.
“How ‘bout we make the safe word ‘hot tag’? When you’re done gettin’ dominated.”
“Okay,” you breathe – and that’s when he stuffs your underwear in your mouth. You flex your tongue and jaw, but you can’t move the wad of fabric and you can’t make any sound louder than a muffled whimper. Your thighs clench so hard it hurts.
“I’m good at readin’ signals,” he murmurs, still pressing you down with sheer weight and strength. “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ you don’t want – I’m the bad guy, sure, but that’s all for show. You’re just gonna have to trust me. Now lemme see that body.”
He and Beowulf still have a lot in common – he tears apart the sweater vest like a paper napkin. You make a useless sound of protest.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, hot stuff. I’m just doin’ this to get a rise outta the ‘Wulf – eatin’ his eye candy. Rattlin’ his cage, tellin’ ‘im all the things I got to do to you, how I made ya scream. But he doesn’t care who huffs- and puffs- and blows your house down.” He punctuates this by biting down on your collar and shoulder between each word. As promised, you do let out a little scream as he reaches your nipple.
“Nah, baby – this is just for you and me. I’m every inch the man that he is – but I only play rough.” His hands squeeze your ass and your back arches. You’re still crying out through the gag just to hear yourself, just to feel the effect it has on both of you, those garbled sounds of lust and wanting. You can’t move, can’t speak, you can’t do anything unless he says so – and you love it.
So when he sees that you’re ready, he takes it upon himself to give you what you need.
~
You’re kneeling and humming a happy tune to yourself. If this was a Saturday morning cartoon, you would presently be covered in bright red lipstick kisses and have little hearts swirling around your head. You’re back in the cage, clad in a very oversized Wulfpack t-shirt and a pair of bike shorts.
You’re still bound and gagged, this time with more work-appropriate rope and a thick cotton scarf. You’d asked politely and Wulfsbane had obliged you – for dramatic effect, of course. For a heel and a douchebag, he was actually a decent guy. Any minute now, your knight in shining armor would come to rescue you, wielding his steel chair to slay the beast. Wulfsbane is leaning against your prison, casual as can be. He gives you a sneaky wink as Beowulf’s ring music comes up.
“Look who’s back, tail between his legs. Tell me, why am I the one givin’ you a second chance? I coulda run off with your sweetheart and never looked back.”
Beowulf strides up the walk, chest puffed out. He snatches the mic from Wulfsbane. “I don’t know how a piece of garbage like you thinks, buddy.” Beowulf also gives you a wink, one that is not very sneaky at all.
“You still got somethin’ I want – somethin’ I’ve always wanted.” He points to Beowulf’s waist, the huge, gaudy belt resting there.
Beowulf gasps. “The NMO Inter-Ring Inter-Continental Inter-Kingdom Championship? I won that fair and square!”
“Ha! Playin’ by the rules is for chumps. If you don’t hand over the belt, this one’s gonna be fair and square – at the bottom of the river!” He gives the cage a shake and leers down at you.
Who the hell wrote this? You imagine the two of them hunched over a piece of paper, both contributing to this completely goofy script. Thank goodness you’re gagged, because you have to choke back a fit of giggles. You swoon against the bars and flutter your eyes shut dramatically.
Fortunately for you, they’re about to let their fists do the talking. You can see how perfectly the two are matched, how Wulfsbane is truly built for Beowulf. The spots are flawless, not a foot or an elbow out of place. You’d thought wrestling was corny and a little boring, but seeing two athletes in sync, two performers in their element, is electrifying.
Plus, two hot guys are fighting over you. That definitely makes you pay attention.
Wulf Kick into Pipe Bomb into Potato, countered by a Cheap Pop Hurting Hammer combo. Hard Nosebleed seat and Naegling Knee Drop with a follow-up Diving Wulfdog. You’re getting pretty good at recognizing Beowulf’s moves. Wulfsbane does an Arm Sweep that sends Beowulf sprawling, but he’s on his feet in a second and charging back with a Wulf Blitzer.
Wulfsbane tries to intercept him, but it’s not enough – there’s enough hype running through Beowulf’s veins to finish it. He turns to you and gives you a brilliant smile and a finger gun – the other hand is lifting Wulfsbane by the throat.
“This ain’t just for the title,” he yells. “This is for you, my number one fan! My tag team everything! Sure, I go wild for the glory, for the crowd… but you remind me what it’s all about. You make it all worth it.”
You sit up, eyes wide. You weren’t expecting something so heartfelt. Beowulf blows you a kiss and then wipes the floor with Wulfsbane like no one has ever wiped the floor before. There’s no need for a ref when he’s done.
Beowulf swipes the key from around Wulfsbane’s neck and unlocks the cage. His hands are gentle and warm as he unties you – something you realize you could really get used to. You throw your arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, passionately. The two of you return to the ring and he holds your hand in his, lifting it up in victory. You hold the position for a second longer, and… cut.
“Phew! That was a workout!” Beowulf hugs you close and gives you another kiss. “Damn, I love to see a looker in my merchandise. Nice work, babe.” He turns to Wulfsbane. “Hey, pal, you okay?”
Wulfsbane hops up from the floor like he hadn’t just been beat to hell and back. “You know it! You still got it, ‘Wulf my man.”
“Aw, you’re too much.” The two of them high-five. “How ya been? Feels like a million years since you and me went at it like that.”
“To be honest? No clue. I dunno where I go when I ain’t in the ring.”
“Man, me too. I get how you feel. There ain’t nowhere else in the whole wide world like it.” You’re pretty sure that Wulfsbane was being literal, but you keep it to yourself. You’re also a little offended, frankly.
“Holy shit,” you say. “That was insane. In like, a lot of ways. Are you going to show that on TV?”
“Well, yeah, we taped it,” Wulfsbane says, “but that was just for practice. We gotta review the footage, tighten up the routine. Then we do it for real next week at N-M-Overdrive.”
“F-For real?” Your throat closes up. “Wait, live? In front of an audience?”
“You know it. Don’t worry, we’ll run through it some more before then. You got time to learn your lines.”
“All none of them. Thanks.”
Wulfsbane ignores you. “Hey, who knows. Maybe you and me can run through all tonight’s moves, if you know what I mean.” He waggles his eyebrows lasciviously – at you and Beowulf. “I got to know this cutie pie pretty damn good between matches.”
“Oh, you did?” Beowulf beams. “Great! He’s a good dude, ain’t he?”
“Real good dude,” you repeat, blushing furiously. “Very multi-talented. What time is it?”
“Oof.” Beowulf checks his watch. “Goin’ on five in the morning. This has been legendary, don’t get me wrong, but I gotta get some shut-eye. You two can crash at my place, we can grab some early breakfast on the way.”
“Eh, shut-eye’s overrated. I got a better idea.” Beowulf looks puzzled, but Wulfsbane advances on you. You step back but run right into Beowulf – and before you know it, you’re sandwiched between the two men. “You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”
Beowulf thinks for a moment, then breaks out in a grin. “Oh, I think I know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Guys,” you say, “guys. Home. Please.”
Sounds like you’re really going to need that breakfast.